


What to Expect When You're Expecting

by voodoochild



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Alcohol, Female Friendship, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, POV Female Character, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Motherhood, friendship, and the Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Pryce family: nine months in the lives of Joan Holloway and Peggy Olson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What to Expect When You're Expecting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [warriorpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorpoet/gifts).



_Month #1_

Peggy knows something's wrong when Joan comes in one morning and refuses to go anywhere near the partners' offices.

It's Roger, of course. They all pretend where that relationship is concerned; pretend Roger's gaze doesn't linger on her for moments longer than everyone else's, pretend that Joan doesn't rearrange his schedule when he's tired or bring him coffee no matter who his secretary is. Pretend like there's not two kinds of adultery going on.

Not that Peggy has any room to speak on the subject of adultery.

At the Lucky Strike meeting today, Joan's hands were shaking (she had kept them folded or busy, so it wasn't noticeable, but Peggy was sitting next to her), and Roger didn't so much as light a cigarette. And when Lane mentioned a lunch meeting, Joan had looked away while Roger spun one of his lies about Jane cleaning him out of pocket cash.

She'd ask, but she and Joan aren't quite friends. They're cordial, the occasional drink at Lindy's after work or small talk in the ladies' room, but they're not friends. And she doesn't really have time, because Don is getting huffy and impatient with her.

 _Come on, Peggy, I need that copy for Honda now!_

 _The pitch for Clearasil's new campaign is tomorrow, let's get it done!_

 _Jesus, stop bitching about the art guys and do some work!_.

So she keeps her head down and her mind on her work. If there's something wrong, Joan doesn't say a word to anyone.

A week later, Peggy has just escaped Stan and Joey's latest adventure in idiocy under the cover of "brainstorming" the Wrigley account - throwing gum at the ceiling to see if it'll stick to the pencils that are already up there. The break room will be deserted, because it's 4 pm and anyone not being held hostage by Don will have gone to the bar by now, so she heads down there with a new book and the intent of making a fresh pot of coffee.

She finds Joan and Roger, mid-argument.

Peggy doesn't think they ever really let each other have it, not like Don and Betty's fights. They don't scream or throw things; they just glare and snipe and let things fester. If she were five years younger, it'd be like Ma and Pop all over again.

"Why did you lie to me?" Roger asks, sullen, expansively waving a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Joan is braced against the counter, and Peggy would bet good money that it's the only thing holding her up.

"I wasn't sure, Roger. I didn't know for sure."

"You told me you were going to-"

"Keep your voice down," Joan hisses. "It's my decision, Roger, mine!"

What decision they're talking about isn't clear, because Joan goes pale when she spots Peggy. She doesn't quite run away - Joan Harris doesn't run, this is something Peggy is certain of - but she bustles toward the hallway like she was walking away from Roger and not anything else.

Roger turns to Peggy. "Something I said?"

~~~

 _Month #2_

The "on the rag" jokes have been flying fast and free, and Peggy could cheerfully toss Stan Rizzo and the entire art department out the window onto Madison Ave.

She slams the door to the ladies room shut and pulls out a pack of cigarettes she'd swiped off Don a few days ago. She usually buys her own, but she'd forgotten and Don's been oblivious ever since the engagement. He'll never miss them.

The first drag is just as sweet, just as calming as it always is, and in these moments, she understands the copy they write for Lucky Strike and Marlboro and Parliament. She understands the rebellion inherent in smoking, and that the way she holds her cigarette is indicative of an advertising campaign.

She exhales, and the door bangs open.

"Asshole!" Joan yells, heels striking the floor in a sharp clack. "Asshole, asshole, asshole!"

She doesn't seem to register Peggy at first, but Peggy just taps her cigarette out the window and holds out the pack to Joan. "Lucky Strike went that bad?"

Joan flushes, but accepts the cigarette. "If I never see Lee Garner again, it will be too soon."

Peggy leans back and watches Joan light up, the way her hands are a little shaky and her complexion a little pale.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine," Joan says primly, which is Joan-speak for "I wouldn't tell you if I weren't".

Peggy doesn't press, just takes a drag and gestures out at the hallway. "Garner's going to be someone else's problem in two weeks, as soon as Roger signs Brooks Brothers. From what I heard, the deal's all but done. You just have to last until then."

"I know." Joan flicks the cigarette daintily with her thumb, smoking like Marilyn would. Of course, Joan's the original. "I can handle the comments and the flirting and the ass-grabbing, but when he corners me in my office and expects me to go down on him? I won't, and I don't care what he says."

It should be horrifying that Peggy isn't the only one the men harrass. It shouldn't make her feel good that Joan Harris is just as demeaned as Peggy Olsen, should it?

Except it does. It really does.

The feeling sinks into her stomach as they lean against the window.

Next Wednesday, when Joan goes green, bolts from a meeting with the partners, and Roger Sterling looks far too concerned, Peggy understands.

She gets up, goes down to the canteen, and buys saltines and ginger ale. Knocking on Joan's door is always nervewracking, but this is something Peggy wishes someone had done for her, three years ago.

"I'm unavailable," Joan says through the closed door.

Peggy sticks her ground. "Joan, let me in. I know what's wrong."

The door unlocks, but doesn't open. Peggy slips inside to find Joan sitting on two pushed-together chairs, hunched over and breathing hard. She doesn't think she's ever seen Joan so miserable, hair fallen out of her updo and dark circles around her eyes.

"Let me guess, two months and the morning sickness has started?"

Joan nods. "And I've been feeling dizzy and out of breath. How did you know?"

"I wasn't at a fat farm three years ago," Peggy says bluntly, and Joan looks like she wants to comment, but stays quiet. The nausea's probably not helping. "I don't know why I didn't know I was pregnant. I wasn't a virgin, I knew how these things worked. My sister has two kids. I remember all of what she went through, but it just - didn't click. I was just gaining weight and feeling sick all the time and so tired that I went home every day and cried."

Peggy could kick herself, now. How does a woman not know she's pregnant, not feel the baby growing and kicking and moving? How does she rationalize weight gain and swollen ankles and bladder problems and not come up with pregnancy. She doesn't know what her mind had done to itself, why it had just blacked everything out that she didn't want to think about.

Joan reaches for the ginger ale and takes a small sip. She isn't showing, not yet, and her figure is generous enough in the hips to probably mask that for a while. But her hands have settled on her stomach, stroking in that telltale way, and Peggy knows this won't be a secret for long.

"What are you going to do?" she asks Joan, sitting down cross-legged on the floor.

Joan's face goes hard. "Tell my husband he's about to become a father and go shopping for maternity clothes."

"Joan?"

"What?"

"I can count."

"And?"

Peggy sighs. "So can everyone else. Greg's been deployed about two weeks too long to be the father."

A flash of fear, then resolve. "He doesn't know that."

"All right," she says, opening the saltines and taking one herself. "I won't say anything. You can trust me."

~~~

 _Month #3_

Joan takes a few sick days in May - not many, and not enough to be noticeable, but more than usual. Don and Lane throw fits every time she's out, so Peggy's taken to learning Joan's job in an attempt to smooth things over. It's better than watching Joan wince every time she moves and empty her stomach in the trash bin at regular intervals.

The job is insane. Peggy will never understand how Joan does everything she does. Because while her title is still officially "Office Manager" and unofficially "Assistant Chief Operating Officer", Joan does everything from buy the cream for the coffee to trans-Pacific phone calls with Honda's marketing division to payroll for the entire agency.

Peggy doesn't ever want to look at a budget report again.

She does what she can - to no thanks, at least none that aren't forced like insults out of Don's mouth and tossed out like afterthoughts from Lane's - and she brings what she can't decipher to Joan at night.

Even budget reports are easier to approach with a bottle of wine and Joan's chocolate chip cookies.

"They didn't!" Joan breathes in horror. She's actually wearing drawstring pants and a tee shirt; Peggy had choked the first time Joan opened the door to her apartment and hadn't been dressed in her usual splendor. "Please tell me you kept Peter and Kenny away from the Hornbachs."

"I had Megan take the Hornbachs out to Lincoln Center while Pete and Kenny were in the office, and when they went to lunch, we did the pitch."

Joan clinks glasses with Peggy. "I have taught you well. Please don't take offense, but that was surprisingly well-handled."

"Don't compliment me yet," Peggy warns her. "Pete and Kenny found out we're doing business with the president of their rival school. You're in for a thorough tantrum tomorrow. And who knows what Megan's done with the mock-ups I asked her to put together."

"She's trying, at least?"

"She's failing," Peggy grumbles. "I know I was hopeless, but at least I wasn't working for my fiancee and going all moon-eyed whenever he walked in. You know she dropped that crystal vase that Waterhouse gave us?"

Joan winces, though whether it's the vase or her breasts hurting is anyone's guess.

"Planning a wedding is a big responsibility," Joan says. She takes a fifth cookie, which tells Peggy just how much the stress is getting to her. She's got a hungry pregnancy, while Peggy can remember months of barely eating at all and yet gaining weight. "Just keep her away from the breakables."

"She's so perky."

Joan smiles. "Don't worry, she'll learn."

~~~

 _Month #4_

Joan is out at a doctor's appointment, and Roger's taking his displeasure out on everyone else. He's been alternately sulking and screaming at anyone with the misfortune to get within ten feet of his office, and terrified a grand total of four secretaries into crying.

(Peggy sympathizes, but now understands Joan's rule about crying in the break room. It doesn't help anything.)

When Roger graduates to throwing paperweights at people - and who does he think he is? Allison? - Peggy sends Lillian off to Woolworth's for an early lunch and brings her work over to Lillian's desk.

"Lillian!" Roger bellows. "Where's that ice I wanted?"

Peggy presses the button on the handset and continues trying to think up fifteen synonyms for "brave".

"You could use the intercom. And ask, since you know Lillian ran off crying."

He sticks his head out the door in confusion. "Peggy?"

"Yes, Roger?"

"Where's Lillian?"

What he actually means is "where's Joan?", but she won't say that. Courageous. Defiant. Adventurous. Confident. Fearless. Strong.

"You threw a paperweight at her, Roger."

"I throw something at her ten times a day," he mutters. "What's so different about now?"

Peggy has just about had it with him. "Throwing things at your secretary isn't going to make Joan less pregnant."

His gaze hardens, and he goes to slam the door in her face. Typical, really. But he just goes inside his office, and comes out with a bottle of Lagavulin and two glasses.

"Tell you what, Peggy. Get me ice, and I'll share."

On one hand, it's getting Roger Sterling ice and enabling alcoholism and depression.

On the other hand, it's _Lagavulin_.

She comes back with the ice, and he fixes her a drink without asking how she likes it. He doesn't need to, it's perfect, exactly the blend of scotch and two cubes she'd make for herself. It burns and then mellows on the way down, and she wonders just how much of her salary she'd have to scrape together every week to afford a bottle.

"She tell you whose kid it is?" Roger says, slumped in the chair next to her desk.

Peggy pauses. Risk it?

"She didn't have to," she eventually answers.

"The hell does that mean?"

"It means that Joan is my friend, and it means that the entire office knows you and Joan have history."

"Christ," Roger scowls. "She tell you she told me she was getting rid of it?"

"No. But it would still be her decision."

They drink in silence, until Roger abruptly gets to his feet. He doesn't even stumble; he's had years of practice at faking it.

"I miss her, you know. I wish things were different."

If he weren't married. If she weren't married. If it hadn't started as an affair and if there weren't, Peggy suspects, other pregnancies Joan had terminated. This is Joan's chance at her "perfect life", but no one's life is perfect.

A baby can't change that.

~~~

 _Month #5_

"Can you drive?" Joan asks breathlessly when Peggy answers her intercom.

"Joan, I live in Brooklyn and I take the subway."

"Shit!" When Joan curses, it's serious. "My doctor's appointment's been changed to 1:30, and I'll never make it in time if I try to catch a cab."

Peggy has a thought; it's risky, it'll almost certainly involve awkward questions, and Joan will probably try to kill her for it. But it would get her to the doctor's in time.

"You could ask-"

"If the next name out of your mouth is 'Roger Sterling', I will -" The insult trails off, because Joan is terrible at making threats. Joan doesn't threaten, she acts. "No. Abolutely not. Not Roger."

"I wasn't going to suggest Roger."

"What were you-"

"What about Don?"

Joan scoffs. "Don't be stupid. Don's busy, he and Campbell have the Tylenol people in at 2, and he's got lunch with Alan Tollwell."

It takes another five minutes - during which Peggy mentions multiple times that they're wasting time arguing - but Joan agrees to ask Don. Peggy doesn't know what was said, but five minutes after hanging up the phone, she sees Don with his coat over one arm and Joan on the other, heading out to the lobby.

When they get back around 3:30, Joan looks better. Don looks like hell, and he ducks into Peggy's office with a bottle of vodka in one hand and his hat in the other, sinking down onto the chair exhaustedly.

"What's the matter with you?" Peggy asks.

"Not without a drink." Don unscrews the top off the bottle and picks up two glasses, filling them and passing one to her. "Cheers."

"Cheers. That horrible?"

"The doctor was fine. The baby is fine. Joan, on the other hand, is making Betty's mood swings with all three kids look like a saint in comparison. Greg doesn't know how lucky he is to be in Vietnam. I could join him."

Peggy rolls her eyes. "Joan's never been pregnant before, and she's scared. Can you really blame her for being emotional?"

"Were you scared?"

He would never ask this if they weren't drinking. Certain events, in their own words, "never happened". Don crashing his car and needing bail. Peggy in that hospital after her baby. A night of brainstorming and diner food and a phone call from California.

She doesn't even lie. She never lies to Don.

"When they told me to push. Nothing was - real, not before then. Before, I convinced myself that the weight was from too much food and the stress of a new job. Before, I could just ignore everything else. But when they tell you to push, there's nothing else that could be happening. I think I screamed myself hoarse."

Don doesn't answer, just fills her glass again.

~~~

 _Month #6_

Greg is home on furlough, he couldn't be prouder of his pregnant wife and growing child, and it's making Peggy nauseous.

He's made the rounds of the office, acting chummy with Don over his impending marriage and smoking cigars with Pete, Kenny, Stan and Joey. Joan has got her pregnancy glow at last - after much nausea, fatigue, and swollen ankles - and she smiles at Megan and Hildy and Trudy like a benevolent Madonna.

This is also making Peggy nauseous.

She hides out in her office, banning the boys (ostensibly for the cigars, mostly just because they're annoying) and rewriting the pitch for Bell Tel because Don's too distracted and it won't write itself. The forced laughter from the office grates, and she tells herself that she's happy for Joan, really she is. The same way she's happy for Don and Megan, and doesn't feel as if she's standing by the side of the road watching everyone zoom by.

"What are you doing?"

Sally Draper is in the doorway, bows in her hair, patent leather shoes shined, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Peggy knows how she feels.

"Rewriting a pitch," Peggy says, trying not to let her discomfort show. She's not good with kids. "Are you here to meet your dad and Megan?"

At the mention of Megan, Sally perks up. "She's taking us ice-skating at Rockefeller Center! And to Sardi's for dinner! And she gave me this bracelet, look!"

It's good, she supposes, that Sally and her brothers like Megan, both in that childish way (because she's pretty and she buys them things) and in a more grown-up way (because she could be like their mother and not spend time with them).

"That's a very pretty bracelet," Peggy says. It's perfunctory, and maybe that saying about children smelling fear is true, because Sally wrinkles her nose.

"Why don't you wear pretty jewelry like my mommy and Megan? Don't you have a boyfriend to buy you some?"

Kids don't understand choosing between rent and heating. Or the strings a man's gift carries with it. Or the need to stand on her own and prove - to Ma, to her sister, to Don, to Father Gill, to everyone - that she can do and have it all.

Peggy takes a deep breath, says "No, I don't," and goes back to work.

~~~

 _Month #7_

Joan and Peggy are at a dinner hosted by the Wanamakers - up from Philadelphia, looking to hire a new agency - when the baby kicks for the first time. Joan stifles a squeak and spills her champagne all over the tablecloth.

Mrs. Wanamaker is surprised - "You're twenty-six weeks, dear. They usually make their presence known before now." - and helps mop up the champagne.

Joan shakes her head. "He hasn't been too active. A few flutters here and there, but no real kicks. I was beginning to worry."

"Oh, honey. In a week or two, after he's done the lambada all over your bladder, you'll be wishing for a break."

Don and Mr. Wanamaker are amused. Roger, though - Peggy's getting more familiar with that look on his face, and it's what makes her press her hand to Joan's belly and direct her voice in his direction.

"Roger, you should feel how strong he is. I think he's trying out for the Giants."

Joan shoots her a glare, but Roger gets up and dutifully places his hand on the curve of Joan's belly. Peggy, for all her talent at writing, doesn't have the words for the expression on his face. Peggy doesn't know how involved he was with Margaret's birth (and the answer, she finds out from Don later, is "not at all, he was on a trip to Hawaii at the time"), but you'd think he'd never felt a baby kick before.

God, if anyone in the room were ever in doubt as to who the father was . . .

"Whaddaya think, Joannie - we have a future place-kicker on our hands?"

Joan's expression softens. "I think he'll be as stubborn as his father."

Mr. Wanamaker, with a very timely question, saves the obvious from being stated. "Have you heard from your husband, Mrs. Harris?"

As Joan launches into a carefully-worded - and no doubt rehearsed - answer, Peggy sips champagne and refuses to let Roger glare her into submission. She's not matchmaking, and goodness knows she wouldn't want anyone telling tales about the father of _her_ child, but she isn't blind to the way they feel about each other.

Roger is one of the only things, other than her child, to make Joan smile.

~~~

 _Month #8_

Bed rest, Joan informs Peggy over the telephone, is the worst punishment to inflict upon someone.

She has nothing to do all day, her bladder feels like the size of a pea, sometimes she is so dizzy she can barely sit up, and she thinks her wallpaper is staring back at her. The last could be influenced by the book of short-stories she's reading, though. Peggy advised against Charlotte Perkins Gilman, but Joan had ignored her.

Mostly, she just wants someone to talk to. So Peggy puts her on speakerphone and encourages the entire office to chat with her for a few moments. Wendy from the art department tells her about a play she saw. Kenny discusses the latest James Bond movie. Lane reads her newspapers and, once, a romance novel. Trudy comes in for an afternoon and answers all of Joan's "silly" motherhood questions she doesn't want to ask her doctor. Roger doesn't say a word, which infuriates Peggy.

Joan is sanguine about it, though. "It's just not Roger. He doesn't know how to do this."

"What, how to be an actual person?"

"Yes," Joan laughs, before sobering up. "He's Roger. How long have you known him? I've known him for almost a decade, and he just doesn't do things like this."

It's true, but it doesn't make it any less sad.

She counts it as a victory, though, when she buys Roger a new bottle of Grey Goose and makes him drink it in her office coincidentally when Joan is scheduled to make her daily call.

~~~

 _Month #9_

Joan doesn't quite give birth _in_ the office, but it's a near-miss.

It's kind of a whirlwind of Harry and Pete and Kenny running around like schoolchildren, no idea what to do; Megan and Hildy and the other girls fluttering their hands in confusion and offering Joan cool washcloths; Don and Roger holing up in Roger's office, washing their hands of the entire affair; and Peggy trying in vain to calm everyone down and keep Joan from crushing her hand.

The voice of reason, surprisingly enough, is Lane Pryce.

"Oh, for God's sake - everyone out of the way! Hildy, call my driver and tell him to get the car ready. Peter, kindly step in for Joan and myself with the representatives from Wrigley's. I trust you can handle them. Peggy, did Joan bring any change of clothing with her? She'll want to wrap up before she goes outside. Joan, my darling, you're going to be fine. We're going to the hospital now."

Thank God, Peggy thinks, for British stoicism and stiff upper lips. She wraps a blanket over Joan and helps her down to Lane's car. As the car pulls off, she can't help but say a prayer:

 _Make it easy. Don't let her be afraid, not like me._

Ten hours later, Peggy enters Joan's hospital room to find Joan bleary-eyed and holding a tiny bundle.

"His name is James. Say hello to your godson."

"Me?" Peggy stutters. "Wouldn't one of your sisters be better?"

"Peggy," Joan says, a little of the old bite creeping into her voice. "You're here. They aren't."

And Peggy panics, because she couldn't even care for her own son. Can't hold him or play with him without remembering that paralyzing fear: _this is happening_. How can she ever be expected to be a good godmother to James with all her failings?

(What she learns - because it's not something that you can know - is that children forgive you more easily than you can forgive yourself. But that is many years of trial, error, and uneasiness later.)

"Can I hold my godson, then?"

Joan smiles, and hands him over. James has his mother's red hair and his father's dark eyes, and if she doesn't see Roger Sterling here in approximately twenty more minutes (factoring in the time he'll take to have a fortifying drink before coming), Peggy is going to kill him.

She thinks she'll make a better godmother than mother.


End file.
